torsdag 28. mars 2013

The women at the tomb, MS. Harley 2889, German, 2nd quarter of the 12th century

Maundy Thursday now
being past we have entered the final stage of the greatest and most
important of Christian celebrations. The mystery of Easter is at the
very heart of Christianity and it marks the climax (but not the end)
of the liturgical drama by which Christ's life, death and
resurrection is commemorated. There are a great number of beautiful
Easter hymns, and in this little blogpost I aim to present to you two
Norwegian hymns, which I love dearly and which are a crucial part of
my identity as a Western Norwegian Lutheran (although I'm more a
heretic than a Lutheran nowadays). Although neither hymn is of
Norwegian origin (the first is Swedish, the second Danish) they are
an important part of the Norwegian hymnal. I had initially
planned to include a large array of Easter hymns here, but these are
the only hymns I could find on youtube which were not purely
instrumental or too horrifyingly funked up to be of any use.

People in the Middle
Ages understood animals differently than we do today. To the medieval
man and woman an animal consisted not solely of its beastly
qualities, but also provided a metaphor for the Christian religion.
It would of course only be natural if God the maker had put such
examples on earth in order to guide mankind towards the truth of
dogma, and to explain these examples they relied on the beautifully
illustrated bestiaries, which relied more on tradition than actual
experience, and these books became keys to decode the book of nature,
which Alain de Lille spoke of in the 12th century. In this blogpost I
aim to present how the lynx, known as lynx or chama in
Latin, fared in three medieval texts.

The Bestiary
of MS Bodley 764

This bestiary
was composed around the mid-thirteenth century and has been
translated in an abbreviated form by Richard Barber. It is this
translation I have used in the quote below. As is proper in a book of
beasts, the author explains its allegorical quality and its natural
properties with the proper reference to authority, in this case
Pliny.

The Lynx is so called because it is counted as a
kind of wolf (lupus). It is a beast marked with spots on its back
like those of a pard, but it resembles a wolf: its urine is said to
harden into a valuable jewel called ligurius. The lynxes know that
this is valuable, as is proved by the exceptional care with which
they cover it with sand: they are naturally jealous, and cannot bear
it to fall into the hands of man. Pliny says that lynxes only bear
cubs once. This beast typifies envious men who, in the hardness of
their hearts, would rather do harm than good and are intent on
worldly desires: even things for which they have no use and which
might benefit others they render useless.

From MS Bodley 764

As is shown by the
above and the introductory pictures, the lynx was commonly depicted
in the act of making a ligurius. The claim that its name is
etymologically connected to the wolf is set forth by Isidore of
Seville, who, although a man of great qualities, was not always
correct in his assertions, and may very well be wrong in this case
also.

The Romance of the Rose

Cats
are known for their good eyesight, and in The Romance of the Rose
this property is used to illustrate how Chastity and Beauty have
always been at war, because men, not possessing the eyesight of the
lynx, fails to see beyond Beauty and discover the veiled truth.

The Romance of
the Rose was written by two
authors of separate generations. The first installment was composed
between 1225 and 1230 by Guillaume de Lorris, and the book was
completed between 1269 and 1278 by Jean de Meun and is presented as
an allegorical dream vision in the manner of Dante's Comedy.
The extract below is taken from Frances Horgan's translation.

Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun, from MS Stowe 947, France, c.1314-1340, courtesy of British Library.

But if men had
the eyes of a lynx, and had looked carefully at them [i.e.
pleasant adornments], no sable mantles, surcoats or skirts,
no braids or kerchiefs, dresses or cloaks, no jewels or precious
things, no false smirks or shining and seemingly artificial exterior,
no garlands of fresh flowers could make them appear beautiful. For
the body of Alcibiades, which had been so well shaped by Nature as to
be extremely beautiful in colour and form, would have been considered
very ugly by anyone who could have looked inside it; so Boethius,
that wise and most worthy man, tells us, and he calls Aristotle to
witness when he says that the eyesight of the lynx is so good and
sharp and clear that he sees quite plainly the exterior and the
interior of everything that he is shown.

I
do not know if the ancient tradition the speaker invokes also
considered the lynx a symbol of envy, or whether this property is
solely a medieval belief. Nonetheless, the idea of the lynx's good
eyesight fits very well with the idea of a jealous individual, for
jealousy unmasks exterior things very easily. However, whether this
connection was made in the Middle Ages is beyond my knowledge.

Inferno

The
last work is the most famous one, namely Dante's first book of the
work known as The
Divine Comedy.
The work was written during Dante's exile from Florence in the early
14th century, and the passage containing the lynx is taken from the
first song, where Dante has lost his way and encounters three beasts
blocking his way. The passage is well-known, but there are differing
opinions among translators what beast Dante is facing. The Italian
text is taken from this website,
which also provides the first English translation.

And,
almost at the point where the slope began, I saw a leopard,
extremely light and active,

The
skin of which was mottled.

Dante meeting the first beast, by Gustave Doré. Image is taken from this website.

Dante
himself uses two words to describe this animal. The first time, as
shown above, he uses the word
lonza,
which resembles the Modern Italian lince,
which means lynx. The second time he only refers to the animal as a
gaetto,
a cat. As we have seen, translators have differed in their
identification of this beast. As seen above the translators have
chosen panther and leopard, but Magnus Ulleland, who
translated the Comedy
into New Norse in 2000, identified the beast as a lynx. According to
David Higgins, writing the notes to Sisson's translation, the early
commentators of the Comedy
saw this animal as an allegory of sexual promiscuity, not of envy,
but whether they were right is difficult to assess. Whether
Dante's lonza
was indeed meant to identify a lynx, or whether the used this for the
sake of rhyme and merely as a different way to say leopard or panther
must be unanswered. Dante describes the beast as maccolato,
or spotted, and fiera,
or beautiful, but this is not of much aid. However, if the early
commentators were right in their allegorical interpretation, it is
tempting to dismiss panther as an option since this animal is
traditionally identified with Christ. On the other hand, tradition
also described the lynx as wolf-like, but it may of course be that
Dante did in fact know how a lynx actually looks. In the end we are
left with speculation, but for the sake of this assemblage I decided
to include it.

lørdag 16. mars 2013

Recently I've been
thinking quite a lot about Oxford. I've started re-watching Lewis,
one of my favourite TV-series of all time, and I've spent much time
on one of my favourite blogs, written by a brilliant clerk of Oxford which contains a great variety
of information pertaining to this city. One result of this
preoccupation is a growing interest in the man who coined the city's
much-loved and much-quoted sobriquet "city of dreaming spires". The man
in question is of course Matthew Arnold (1822-88), whom I came in
contact with through Derek Walcott, who used a stanza from his To
Marguerite as an epigraph in his autobiographical poem Another
Life. It is evident why Arnold's poem was chosen for this
purpose, as both poets display a conspicuous and deep-seated
fascination with wandering, absence, estrangement and longing -
themes which resonate with me very well because of my nostalgic
nature.

Matthew Arnold, c.1883

The poems in this
blogpost were all first published in 1852, written during Arnold's
poetically most productive part of life, namely his twenties. The
latter two are written to the mysterious dedicatee Marguerite, whom
scholars throughout the ages have striven to identify. Arnold is
perhaps most known for his longer poems such as Balder Dead or
Empedocles on Etna, dramatic and narrative works which are
ill-suited for presentation in the blog format, so the poems here are
all short and lyrical. I have come to greatly enjoy these two
qualities in poetry, and I find it is easier to explore a poet by
starting at his shorter work. This is perhaps especially the case
with a Victorian poet such as Arnold, whose style may seem laboured
to our modern eyes, although this is chiefly a result of the numerous
elisions employed throughout the verse lines.

Too Late

Each on his own
strict line we move,

And some find death
ere they find love.

So far apart their
lives are thrown

From the twin soul
that halves their own.

And sometimes, by
still harder fate,

The lovers meet, but
meet too late.

- Thy heart is mine!
- True, true! ah true!

- Then, love, thy
hand! - Ah no! adieu!

To
Marguerite

Yes:
in the sea of life enisled,With echoing straits between us
thrown.Dotting the shoreless watery wild,We mortal millions
live alone.The islands feel the enclasping flow,And then
their endless bounds they know.

But when the moon their
hollows lights,And they are swept by balms of spring,And in
their glens, on starry nights,The nightingales divinely sing;And
lovely notes, from shore to shore,Across the sounds and channels
pour;

O then a longing like despairIs to their farthest
caverns sent!For surely once, they feel, we wereParts of a
single continent.Now round us spreads the watery plain—O
might our marges meet again!

Who order'd that their longing's
fireShould be, as soon as kindled, cool'd?Who renders vain
their deep desire?—A God, a God their severance ruled;And
bade betwixt their shores to beThe unplumb'd, salt, estranging
sea.

Absence

In this fair
stranger's eyes of grey

Thine eyes, my love,
I see.

I shudder: for the
passing day

Had borne me far
from thee.

This is the curse of
life: that not

A nobler calmer
train

Of wiser thougths
and feeelings blot

Our passions from
our brain;

But each day brings its petty dust

Our soon-chok'd
souls to fill, And we forget because we must,

And not because we
will.

I struggle towards the light; and ye,

Once-long'd-for
storms of love!If with the light ye cannot be, I bear that ye
remove.

søndag 10. mars 2013

Medieval hagiography
is a literary category marked by stock characters, types and
repetition. In today's world of individualism these are qualities
that are not always well-received by the reading public. In the
Middle Ages, however, the situation was very different. Hagiography
as a category of literature was modelled on the Gospels, in that its
structure was episodic and its protagonist imitated Christ through
his or her life, actions and death. This is known as the imitatio
Christi and was perhaps the most important feature of the
hagiographic literature. As the centuries progressed and the
catalogue of saints expanded, a range of different saint-types
developed, such as the virgin martyr, the martyr and the confessor.
These were ranked in a hierarchy, arranged in accordance with the
degree to which the type came close to the imitation of Christ.
Because of the veneration of the modl inherent in hagiography, the
authors sought to connect the saint in question with people from the
Bible, the classical literature or Christian history. Conformity was,
in other words, the ideal, since it reassured the devotees that the
saint had powers similar to saints higher up in the hierarachy or had
a particular relationship with them. For instance, Edward the
Confessor was said to be considered by St. Peter and John the Apostle
as their equal, according to Aelred of Rievaulx (d.1167). The supreme
model was of course Christ, but His life could not be imitated in
every way by those who became saints. For instance, some people, like
Edward the Confessor, proved their faith not through death but
through their living and were thus known as confessors. Others, such
as those who died in battle, gave their life for the faith, but
because of their warlike path also came a bit short in fully
embracing the imitatio Christi.

Because
of these features of hagiography, it is of course unsurprising to
encounter similarities between somewhat disparate saints, and finding
such similarities need not suggest connections. However, exploring
such similarities may nonetheless alert us to how widespread or
popular certain elements were in a certain period, or a certain
geographic location. In this blogpost, therefore, I will look at some
similarities between the life of St. Kenelm or Cynehelm (supp.
fl. 803x11)
and the lives of Edward the Confessor (d.1066). The purpose of this
juxtaposition is to draw attention to elements shared by these two
royal saints, and how these elements differ. I have not included all
the similarities, and there are some interesting cases to be explored
in the healing narratives of both saints, but these are less
surprising and more easily detected, so I have left them out here.
Background

Before
embarking on the comparison we must first take a brief look at what
we are dealing with. St. Kenelm was a - probably apochryphal - martyr
who died in the early 9th century. According to his
vita
from the mid-eleventh century, he was the son of the king of Mercia
and was killed by his tutor on commission from his evil sister
Cwenthryth. Through a number of miracles the sanctity of his
resting-place became apparent, and when the pope received a message
from dove containing the details of his story, he ordered Kenelm
venerated. As the translation of Kenelm's remains was carried out,
the wicked Cwenthryth sat in her chamber reading the psalter
backwards. When she saw the holy relics of her brother, her eyes fell
out of her head and onto the page.

Although the anonymous
author of Kenelm's vita
refer to old English songs as his source for the legend, this may
merely be the invocation of ancient authority so dear to medieval
scribes, or it may accurately reflect how the legend was
disseminated. In any case, Rosalind Love states that the cult of
Kenelm "only took on a coherent form" at about 969 (Love
1996: cxi), and from the evidence available there is little to
suggest "any formal, liturgical, veneration of Kenelm before the
middle of the tenth century." The early ecclesiastically
sanctioned cult of Kenelm was, in other words, closely connected to
the Benedictine reformers of that age.

The
earliest extant evidence of liturgical commemoration of Kenelm's dies
natalis,
his heavenly birthday, can be found in calendar from south-west
England dated to the second half of the 10th century, and his name
can be found "in virtually all the calendars surviving from the
eleventh century" (Love 1996: cxiv). Furthermore, books of
hours, litanies and similar liturgical evidence point to Kenelm's
enduring popularity well into the 15th century. This is underscored
by the Middle English life of Kenelm in the 13th century South
English Legendary.

Death of Edward the Confessor, the Bayeux Tapestry

Edward
the Confessor

Edward
the Confessor is better known than Kenelm and presumably requires
less introduction. Those who are interested, however, may find
blogposts about him here, here and here. As a confessor, Edward
ranked below Kenelm in the saintly hierarchy, but because of Edward's
attachment and appropriation by the English monarchy, he enjoyed a
more ostentatious veneration, at least in periods. Nonetheless,
despite the billowing trajectory of his cult, he remained an
important presence in the world of medieval England.

The
first biography of Edward was written by an anonymous Flemish monk in
the third quarter of the eleventh century (c.1065-75), commissioned
by the king's widow, Edith. This was, however, not a hagiography, but
part family chronicle, part religious biography, yet it was the
foundation on which the later hagiographic literature on Edward was
based. The first proper hagiography was written c.1138 by Osbert of
Clare, prior of Westminster, and this was rewritten by Aelred of
Rievaulx in 1163 on the occasion of Edward's translation. However,
while not a hagiography, Vita
Ædwardi
was heavily influenced by this category and uses a wide range of
hagiographic elements, so although Edward is not considered a saint
in this biography - unlike Kenelm whose sainthood is asserted
repeatedly - he comes very close.

The
reason why a comparison between Kenelm and Edward is of interest, is
that both their first biographies, Vita
et Miracula Sancti Kenelmi
and Vita
Ædwardi qui apud westmonsteriam recquiescit,
came about roughly in the same period, i.e during the queenship or
retirement of Edith (1045-75), the Confessor's wife. We don't know
either of the authors, but evidence suggests that the author of the
former may have been English (due to his purported knowledge of old
English songs), while the latter is now accepted to have been a
Flemish monk.What is most interesting, however, is that both these
work refer to Edith as an active force in their creations. Vita
Ædwardi is
dedicated to the queen and the monk refers to his commission several
times, while the author of Kenelm's vita
expresses his gratitude to Edith for having "revealed to us the
remarkable documents of proof which she said she had herself read
about him" (Love 1996: 53). This snippet of information confirms
the claims of the Flemish anonymous of Edith's passion for reading
and the fine arts.

Comparing
the vitae
of Kenelm and Edward, in other words, is not merely a juxtaposition
of two completely unrelated texts, but texts which came about in the
same period and were ostensibly influenced by Queen Edith. In the
case of Edward, I will also draw on Osbert of Clare's vita,
which is a pure hagiography, and later than the two primary texts,
but heavily influenced by Vita
Ædwardi.

The
shared features of Kenelm and Edward The
dream of the tree

Both
saints have ominous dreams in which a tree plays a significant part.
Kenelm, a young child, recounts to his nurse how a
tree stood before my bed, so high that it reached right up to the
stars, and I saw myself standing in its lofty top, from where I could
see everything for miles around. The treee was very beautiful and
spreading, with wide-stretched branches, filled from bottom to top
with all kinds of flowers. I saw also that the whole thing blazed
with countless lights and lamps, and what is more three parts of this
land were bending low in devotion to me. As I marvelled at the view
from such a great watch-tower, some of my men rushed up below and cut
down the tree and it fell with a great crash. And I was straightaway
turned into a little white bird and soared into the heavens with easy
flight.-
Love 1996: 57.

The
dream is then woefully interpreted by the nurse, but Kenelm - called
a second Joseph - receives these tidings with saintly serenity. As
Rosalind Love points out, one source of this dream is probably the
Book of Daniel: I
saw, and behold a tree in the midst of the earth, and the height
thereof was great. The tree grew, and was strong, and the heigth
threof reached unto heaven, and the sight thereof to the end of all
the earth: The leaves thereof were fair, and the fruit thereof much,
and it was meat for all (...) I saw in the visions of my head upon my
bed, and, behold, a watcher and an holy one came down from heaven; He
cried aloud and said thus, Hew down the tree, and cut off his
branches, shake off his leaves, and scatter his fruit.

However,
there is also a touch of Joseph's dream of the sheaves of corn, which
bend to him in devotion, a touch strengthened by the overt reference
to Joseph, which may also serve to distance Kenelm from the wicked Nebuchadnezzar:For,
behold, we were binding sheaves in the field, and, lo, my sheaf
arose, and also stood upright; and, behold, your sheaves sttod round
about, and made obeisance to my sheaf.

-
Genesis 37:7, KJV

Edward the Confessor, however, experienced a
different dream on his deathbed. After a period of heavy sickness
followed by his consecration of Westminster in 1065, Edward awoke and
told how he was visited in his sleep by priests he had become
acquainted with during his exile in Normandy. The priests told him
that after his death England would fall into great distress on
account of the wickedness of its priests (many of whom were Norman).
Edward is greatly pained by this and asks for some consolation, a
promise of divine alleviation. To this the priests reply:When
a green tree, having been cut from its trunk and set apart from its
own root at the space of three yokes, returns to its trunk and is
restored to its old root - compelled by no human hand, driven by no
necessity - and, with its sap restored, flowers again and bears
fruit, then some comfort in this tribulation and a remedy for the
trouble we have foretold is to be hoped for.

-
The Life of Saint Edward, King and Confessor, Aelred (translated by
Jane Patricia Freeland), printed in Dutton 2005: 205-06

Although
Edward's dream is also ominous, it is very different from the dream
of Kenelm. First of all, it contains a parable of a tree, not the
tree itself. Secondly, while Kenelm's dream foretells the young
king's death, the dream of Edward foretells the disasters that will
befall England. Furthermore, while Kenelm is compared with Joseph the
dreamer, Edward receives the role of admonitor, the prophet who warns
his people in the manner of Elijah threatening Ahab. Nonetheless, I
find it interesting that the tree is found as an important
metaphorical element in the dreams of both Kenelm and Edward, and
this may point to a topos of 11th century literature, for although
the quote above is taken from Aelred, the story first appears in the
anonymous Vita
Ædwardi
(which I do not have available right now). It is rather tempting to
suggest that the authors may have drawn some inspiration from the
Dream of the Rood. However, considering the author of Vita
Ædwardi
was Flemish he may not have been familiar with this work, and the
biblical nature of Kenelm's dream does not suggest any other sources
- though they may exist. It is, therefore, an open question, whether
the tree imagery draws on the same topos, or whether there are
parallel traditions in use.

The
miracle of the rod

The
second feature is not to be found in Vita
Ædwardi,
but in Osbert's c.1138 hagiography. This text is from another
century, but it relies heavily on the 11th-century work and therefore
makes for an interesting comparison.

First,
however, we must start with Vita
Kenelmi.
After having fallen asleep while hunting with his evil tutor, the
little boy wakes up to find his soon-to-be murderer preparing his
grave. Since Kenelm has been warned of this he expresses little
concern about the murder, but states that he shall be buried
elsewhere. To prove that this was the will of God, he plants his rod
in the ground and it blossoms into an ash tree, which, according to
the scribe, is still standing as evidence of this miracle.

Edward
the Confessor's miracle is posthumous and is included in the lengthy
catalogue of such miracles written by Osbert of Clare, which are not
included in the Vita
Ædwardi.
The miracle in question concerns Bishop Wulfstan of Worcester
(c.1008-95), himself canonised in 1203, and probably recounts what
happened at the legatine council at Westminster in 1070. Osbert
states that Wulfstan was asked to give up his baculum,
his bishop's rod of office, presumably due to controversy over
cathedral reform. To this Wulfstan replied: What
you ask of me is not within your right, nor is the care of the church
granted to me by you, neither do I hold the holiness and discipline
of the house of God in debt to you.-
Vita
Beati Edwardi Regis,
Osbert of Clare, edited by Marc Bloch, printed in Analecta
Bollandiana
41, 1923: 117. My translation.

Since only he who has given
something can take it back, Wulfstan goes to the tomb of Edward the
Confessor, who was king when Wulfstan was installed as bishop.
Wulfstan then places his baculum
on the Confessor's tomb and asks someone to remove it. If it can be
removed, the Confessor has relieved him of his office. As it turns
out, no one can remove the baculum
and Wulfstan keeps his position. This story appears to have been
invented by Osbert as it does not appear in the biographical material
relating to Wulfstan, and may possibly be one of the sources
inspiring the sword in the stone of Arthurian mythology. Emma Mason
claims that Thomas Becket, out of devotion to the not-yet-canonised
Wulfstan, brought with him to Canterbury the part of the tombstone in
which his staff had been planted (Mason 1990: 284). Frank Barlow,
however, states that Becket took the Confessor's right arm (Barlow
1962: 132-33).

The
two miracles in question are from different eras and of different
natures, yet the pivotal aspect is nonetheless the same: a rod that
cannot be removed from where it has been planted unless by divine
mandate. Due to the temporal gap between the texts it is doubtful if
any direct link should be suggested, but they may point to a common
source. In the cultural lexicon of the Middle ages, two such sources
stand out as the most likely candidates, namely the rods of Aaron and
Moses as described in Exodus.
According to Jewish
Encyclopedia,
there is an haggadic tradition stating that before the rod of Aaron
came in his possession, it had belonged to Joseph who in turn had
received it as an heirloom. After Joseph's death the rod was taken by
the soon-to-be father-in-law of Moses, Jethro or Raguel, to the
following effect:Jethro
planted the staff in his garden, when its marvelous virtue was
revealed by the fact that nobody could withdraw it from the ground;
even to touch it was fraught with danger to life. This was because
the Ineffable Name of God was engraved upon it.

If
this story was known to the monks of the 11th and 12th centuries, it
may well have served as the model for the rods of the Kenelm and
Edward legends. Whether this was the case, however, I can not state
with any certainty, and it may well be that the topos originated in
the Norse legends later recorded as the Volsungsaga.

Moses
with the staff handing over the stone tablets,MS Harley 616, France,
last quarter of 13th century

Enemies
in the home

The
third and final feature I will look at here concerns conflicts
between the saint/protagonist and a close member of the family. In
the case of Kenelm it was, as stated, one of his sisters who proved
to be the problem. In Vita
Kenelmi
the role of Cwenthryth is unequivocally to be the antagonist bringing
about the king's death, the vehicle of his martyrdom, so to speak.
She is described very vividly as "goaded by savage envy and an
ambition to rule" (Love 1996: 55), and compared with such famous
biblical types as Herodias, Jezabel and Cain, thus encompassing the
wicked female royal and the fratricide. The scribe wryly states
"there is no more baneful pest than an enemy in th home".
Cwenthryth is of course duly punished, as recorded above, when the
sight of her brother's remains being paraded into view makes her
eyeballs literally pop out of her head.

Edward
the Confessor, on the other hand, faced a much less dramatic
conflict, but nonetheless a kind of discord alien to the Christian
ideal of harmonious family relations, an ideal cherished by the
hagiographers of the Middle Ages. The conflict in question arose
between Edward and his mother because of the problem of succession
following Edward's exile into Normandy and his mother's marriage to
King Canute, who gave her Edward's half-brother Harthacnute. When
Edward came to the throne in 1042 upon the death of Hartacnut - some
say he drank himself to death - the new king was angry with his
mother (an anger perhaps aggravated by his brother Alfred's death at
the hands of Danes), confiscated her properties and shut her up in a
nunnery, according to William of Malmesbury. This animosity was left
out of the hagiographies as it reflected very badly on Edward, the
paragon of mildness and generosity. However, it was retained by
historiographers long after Edward's canonisation in 1161, and as
late as the 1390s Richard of Cirencester included this feature in his
near-hagiographic historical account of Edward's life (Mayor
(ed.) 1863, vol 2: 211 ).

Family
disputes are not uncommon in hagiographies, but what is interesting
here is that although the feature of family discord appear in texts
pertaining to both saints, they are also different on a very
fundamental level. On the one hand, the nature of the discords differ
greatly in seriousness. Kenelm's sister commissions his death and
reads the psalter backwards as cursing. The scribe's juxtaposition of
her and a minor catalogue of deceitful characters leaves no question
as to her nature, and her horrible end underlines this very vividly.
Edward's dispute is a matter of distrust and it does not result in
deadly retaliation, nor are any of the sides in the dispute portrayed
as personifications of good and evil, since Edward is not yet called
a saint.

Another
important aspect is how this discord relates to sainthood. In the
case of Kenelm, Cwenthryth's betrayal is an elemental part of the
young boy's martyrdom and is therefore crucial to the hagiographic
narrative. In the case of Edward the Confessor, on the other hand,
the family quarrel becomes an embarrassing element for his
hagiographers and is therefore omitted. In fact, Kenelm has more in
common with Edward Martyr who was killed in 978 on behest of his
stepmother Ælfthryth. Conclusion

As
we see there are certain interesting elements which feature in the
literature of both saints. However, not all these elements belong to
hagiography, and through this comparison we have seen that although
the elements are similar, there are certain crucial differences which
decide which category of literature they belong to. We may speculate
to what degree the two literary traditions have influenced each other
and we will probably never find a satisfactory answer, but it is
interesting to note that Queen Edith has played an instrumental role
in the crafting of both these traditions. Although, as we have seen,
there are certain topological resemblances between the two saints,
their differences are more numerous. I will therefore not draw any
conclusions beyond the tantalising idea that having been brought
about in
the same period and perhaps in the same intellectual milieu, the
traditions of these two saints are to some unknown degree
intertwined.

Literature

Barlow,
Frank, The
Life of King Edward who rests at Westminster,
Thomas Nelson and Sons Ltd, 1962

Om meg

Norwegian medievalist, bibliophile, lover of art, music and food. This blog is a mixture of things personal and scholarly and it serves as a venue for me to share things I find interesting with likeminded people.